


Alternatives

by Cheloya



Category: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: F/M, Misuse of Materia, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-10-27 06:43:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10803879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheloya/pseuds/Cheloya
Summary: Old, imported. Vincent should know better than to leave Yuffie to her own devices.





	Alternatives

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a long-ago porn battle. Let me state here that in my head, materia are not Advent Children-sized, i.e. they are not tennis balls.

He answers the PHS on its first warning vibration, not wanting the thin, frantic shriek of the high-priority ringtone. "Yuffie."

"You could at least pretend to guess wrong," she complains. Not seriously; very few of her complaints to him are serious. "But I guess anyone would be desperate to talk to me after three whole days out of Wutai — you practically picked up before I'd dialled, Vincent." The slightest hint of a grin works its way into her tone. "What'sa matter, ya miss me?"

His lips twitch into a smile, there and gone again, and for a moment he considers telling her the truth. But she is incorrigible even without it, so, "I've been busy."

"You know what they say about all work and no play," she singsongs, undaunted. Then, suddenly serious: "Pick a materia, Vincent." Her voice deepens slightly with the words; whatever her father's retainers are teaching her of command these days, it's working. He considers the options, noting lazy curiosity that is not entirely his own.

"Steal."

"You're such a romantic, Vincent," she laughs. "Mmm. Okay." There's a short pause. "Now another."

He frowns, but doesn't ask. If he asks, she'll never tell. Like as not, it's some game she's come up with to make her patrols of the village more interesting. In which case…

"Barrier," he says, and her snicker makes no sense to him. When she asks again, he tells her, "Restore," and when she says his name it comes from deep in her throat, warm and amused.

"I'm not going to break, Vincent," she says, and he recognises the phrase from a dozen scattered private moments, though her tone now is less frustrated and more amused. His breath catches in his throat, pupils flare faintly in the darkness. The PHS creaks in his suddenly tight grasp.

"Yuffie," he says, and he means to sound appalled, but that is not at all how the word emerges. The sound of his own voice, low and needful when he thinks it should be anything but, is like a warm, unexpected hand upon his hip.

"Pick a materia, Vincent," she says, and now that he is listening for it, he can detect the hitch in her breath.

He thinks, _this is obscene_ , and then he wonders how long she had waited to make the call, if she had gotten confirmation of his safety from Reeve–

"Fire," he says, eyes closed and listening to her careful breathing and soft noises — no teasing, there. The warm bronze of his left arm sinks teeth into his thigh. "Ice."

"Bastard," Yuffie hisses into the phone, and he doesn't give her long enough to moan.

"Lightning." He lifts the claw carefully into the air and rolls onto his back, opening his eyes and focusing on the ceiling because anything else will undo him. The cracks in the paint cannot save him from the raw sound she makes as the Lightning materia drags over, into, sensitive flesh, and the pathetic circling of the ceiling fan does nothing to cool his blood.

"Phoenix," he whispers, because he cannot speak aloud, and tries to prevent his grip on the PHS from growing destructive.

"Vincent," she says, "Vincent–"

"Yes."

Keeping his eyes open makes no difference; he can see every breath, every strand of hair in disarray, every shudder of her narrow frame. He waits while she recovers, slowly, knowing the slow unclenching of her body as well as he knows painful sensitivity of his own.

"That's what you get," she says at last, "for being away so long." Her consonants are lazy, her vowels not quite sound. Wutaian is not Midgan.

"Debriefing in seven hours."

"I should let you get some sleep." And she knows, she _knows_ he will be doing no such thing.

"I will see you tomorrow evening."

"Say hi to Reeve for me."

"Good night, Yuffie."

Her snicker precedes the dialtone. He does not bother to prise his fingers away from the PHS. Flesh still burning with a combination of humiliation and arousal, he abandons sleep in favour of a shower, and a revision of his report.

Knowing her, the call had been collect.


End file.
